


In Dreams

by your_bro_joe



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Consensual Violence, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Non Consensual, Twisted Family, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:48:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/your_bro_joe/pseuds/your_bro_joe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Lecter is often fascinated by his patients, but his fascination with Will Graham has become an obsession that follows him into his violent dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"This is our family now," Hannibal says, looking into the empty sockets that were Will’s eyes. “This is our family.”

Abigail is tied to a chair, blind, mute, her tongue on the elegantly set plate before her, just as Will’s is before him. Her wrists are raw, but she has long since ceased struggling.

Hannibal pops one of Will’s eyes into his mouth; feels it squelch like a grape when he bites down. He hums appreciatively at the flavor, saddened by the fact that his family cannot see the delights laid out on the table; cannot taste them; but glad they cannot see the monster he truly is; cannot voice their horror.

Will opens his mouth, and the soundless, rasping scream that escapes him sends a shiver through Hannibal’s very being.

Hannibal wakes in his bed, sunlight streaming in through the high windows, and smiles to himself. A good dream. He’ll have to write it down, after he takes care of his morning wood.


	2. Chapter 2

Will's lips are as soft as they look against Hannibal’s; plump, like ripe fruit, and in the back of his mind, he thinks, they must also be delicious.

He’s never eaten a person alive before. He plays with them, dissects them, displays them, then kills them, but the eating always comes later. Over a bottle of wine, with a few choice people, he’ll indulge, once they’ve been properly seasoned and seared. Once, he had passed a young woman off as carpaccio, but she, of course, had been dead for several hours before the first light flavors caressed his tongue.

But here, now, Will is pressed against him, pumping blood and breath and life into him, and he nips gently at those lips, sighing at the other man’s soft moan. His hands go from wanting to possessive, grabbing Will’s shirt and pulling him flush against him, in a grip he’s used so many times before. He cannot help himself. He holds tighter, bites harder, and comes away with one of those soft, plump lips in his mouth.

He surveys Will studiously as he chews and takes his time to savor the taste of coppery blood and appreciate the sight of Will’s red, dripping mouth. The flesh is juicy when he swallows with a smirk of satisfaction, and he is pleasantly surprised when Will presses them together again, kissing him just as ardently as he had before, though sans his lower lip.

Hannibal cups the back of his head like a lover, running delicate fingers through thick, untamed hair. Will is gasping, groaning, whimpering into him, and the sounds coil in the pit of Hannibal’s stomach like a fresh meal. It isn’t long before he realizes Will is offering himself to him willingly; a sacrifice to his genius and bloodlust from an equal who knows and understands his mind in ways no one else ever could. He wonders if he can swallow the other man’s tongue before severing it and feel it twitch in his throat like a lizard’s tail.

Hannibal wakes in his bed, heated and wanting, with the feeling of lips soft and pink as rose hips still on his.


	3. Chapter 3

There is something supremely sexual, Hannibal thinks, about being elbow-deep in the torso of a living, breathing human being. To feel the stomach gurgle, caress the beating heart, watch the lungs and diaphragm desperately expand and contract is thrillingly sensual, and Will looks so appealing with his belly stretched apart by spreaders, looking up at him with terrified eyes.

A whimper escapes from under the gag (too much screaming would ruin the mood) and Hannibal smiles at him, glad Will took his warnings about thrashing around being detrimental for the both of them. He runs a bloodied finger over the cuff around one of Will’s wrists, holding his hand gently and placing it on his erection. The hand shudders, and Hannibal’s grin is ferocious. How he’d love to fuck the holes he’s made in that gorgeous, gory body, but he wants to keep him alive a little longer. He’s always loved to play with his food.

He thinks about this dream intently at his next session with Will, eyes never straying far from the inch of exposed flesh revealed by his unbuttoned collar.


	4. Chapter 4

Will's hand moves effortlessly, guided by Hannibal's, cutting into smooth flesh. The man on the table is paralyzed, by fear and restraints. Normally, Hannibal makes sure his prey is unconscious for this step, but this is Will's first, and he wants it to be special; wants the pig to watch every careful movement of his perfect protege's hands.

"You know the body, don't you, Will?" Hannibal's voice is dark and deep, and Will nods, feeling soft breaths against his neck. "Good," he continues, and presses his teeth against the juncture of Will's neck and jaw, bared in a grin, "I found an intriguing recipe for calf's liver."

He releases that hand, steady as it severs tissue and pulls the chosen organ free. Hannibal smiles genuinely, and kisses him in praise.

Hannibal wakes with a start, cold and sweating. It is still dark outside, and he remains awake for over an hour, convincing himself that the only feeling he has for Will Graham is respect enough not to slaughter him like one of his pigs.


	5. Chapter 5

Will and Abigail smile at him, holding out their hands to beckon him closer. Hannibal smiles back when he sees the blood staining them; the blood of their own kills. It is insignificant to his own body, however, drenched from head to toe, dripping a trail of deep crimson across the snow. 

He joins them, touching them and smearing their clothes and faces with the stuff, marking them, training them to become exactly what he wants them to be: other versions of himself. He has been alone so long, but he does not desire the company of others. His narcissism allows no room for them. 

He sees his face flicker across Will's. He smiles. Kisses him. Stains him red. He kisses Abigail's forehead next, watching the blood drip down to cover her eyes. He smiles.

"This is our family now," they echo him, melting into him, drenched with fresh death.

Hannibal wakes with new purpose. He will kill before nightfall, and imagine his family alongside him.


	6. Chapter 6

Sleek shadows like wisps of smoke, charcoal black against the deep red of plush curtains giving way to gray concrete, hard and cracked and frayed like the corners of his mind, threatening to give way as he looks up with steely eyes at the object of his obsession. Adoration. Depravity. 

Hannibal slips through the bars like mist and touches Will, fingers like claws, feet like hooves, clacking on the cement and alerting him to his presence. His omnipresence. They cannot escape each other; an ouroboros of deadly fascination and mutual fixation. His claws skirt a stubbled cheek and leave a red trail in their wake, dripping the life out of him and into his drab jumpsuit. A welcome splash of color, Hannibal thinks, in this monochrome dungeon. He leans forward, runs his tongue along it, tastes his vitality and feeds on it. He is a monster. He will make Will a monster. He will make Will understand. He will make Will see.

The corner of Will’s lips twitches.

Hannibal can hear the scrape of his antlers against the headboard of his empty bed in the millisecond between consciousness and the opening of his eyes.


	7. Chapter 7

The real Will would never permit this. The real Will would recoil in horror, perhaps even disgust, if Hannibal were so bold with him.

But this is not the real Will. This is the Will of Hannibal’s dreams, of Hannibal’s sickest fantasies: a Will that would never deny him, that would listen and let him in, like a parasite on his mind, feeding on Will’s perception. Perhaps a sort of symbiosis could be reached, if Hannibal could convert the fragile intellectual to his way of thinking.

And in his dreams, he does. In his dreams, Hannibal is accompanied always by his equal; a partner who shares his obsessions and bloodlust and bed.

But the real Will is locked in a cell far away from Hannibal’s warm, ensnaring embrace, prey now only for doctors with purer intentions. Perhaps someday, someday, he will bend that fragile mind in just the right direction, and snap it in his favor. Then the real Will will be his.


	8. Chapter 8

Reclining on the plush chaise in his office, Hannibal looks to Will with half-lidded eyes; a smirk playing on his thin lips.

"Describe it to me."

"I would use my hands."

Will’s voice is a low growl, creeping over Hannibal’s body, and he feels those hands on his throat, feeling out his Adam’s apple and pressing against it, just enough to make him work for his breath, then harder, deeper, and the air stops dead in his trachea, slowly crumbling from the force. His mouth opens wide and he attempts to suck in oxygen, but Will is there, so close to his face, and then he’s on him, sucking the air right out of his lungs, through his mouth, kissing him even as his lips turn cold and the color drains from his face. Everything fades to the tiny point where they are connected; a brilliant blue pinprick that evaporates and then everything is black.

Hannibal wakes with Alana pressed against him, and smiles as he kisses her hair.


	9. Chapter 9

"Make the first incision, here," Hannibal says, close to Will’s ear, guiding his hand to draw the scalpel down their quarry’s torso in a straight line. Inside is dark, and red, and Hannibal takes a moment to smell the freshness of the organs, and the sweat forming on Will’s neck. He smiles, and presses his lips to Will’s throat, feeling his pulse race through his jugular vein. "Now," he coos, "find the liver. We are making croquettes."

Hannibal wakes with the ghost of delicate flavors on his tongue.


	10. Chapter 10

"This isn't sustainable," Will says, and the office around him is swept away; dust and mortar; color and darkness sucked into an abyss until only those words are left.

Hannibal lays him down on the stone slab, flanked by billowing linens and a wailing chorus. A warrior lost before his time (but a warrior's time will always end before a battle's close), and Hannibal feels the loss keenly in his chest, in his heart, as he prostrates himself across Will's limp body. A cry escapes him, and he doesn't bother to muffle it. He wants the world to know of his emptiness, and wants them all to feel it too. He wants the world that could do this to them--to him--to burn until every last one of them understands what it is like to have one's heart wrenched from their chest, helpless to do anything but watch as their own hand comes away bloodied; dark with arterial spray where they plunged the knife in themselves.

Hannibal wakes with wretched clarity, seeing the world, as he always has, for what it is, and himself for what he always was: alone.


End file.
